


Faulty Syllogisms

by fourfreedoms



Series: Disproven Hypotheses [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2013-2014 NHL Season, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, Facials, Fingering, First Time, First Time Bottoming, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 12:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2191686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sharpy shrugs. “I always sort of imagined Jonny didn’t have sex. He just sweetly held hands and stared soulfully into…” he shakes his head, “...whoever’s eyes.”</i>
</p><p>In which everybody thinks Jonathan Toews is chaste like a nun. Everybody, it turns out, is very, very wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faulty Syllogisms

**Author's Note:**

> Let's put it this way, I owe a lot of people immeasurably for their help on this one. Many thanks to joyfulseeker, svmadelyn, demotu for helping me brainstorm and going back and forth with me while I angsted and ranted about how much I hated this story. And most especially, thank you to citybrights, who, over the course of five hours, talked me the rest of the way through it and cleaned up my grammar. She did all this while she was at work at the hospital, because she is Wonder Woman. 
> 
> Also thank you to the kind anon on tumblr who told me to just suck it up and post it. It turned out that sucking it up and posting meant actually adding another 3000 words. BUT STILL. IT'S DONE. IT'S MOSTLY PORN. YAY. I kept writing despite the 6.1 earthquake that happened just before 4 AM. That's devotion, I tell ya. Devotion to never having to do anything with this fic again. 
> 
> Note: people in this story have sex while intoxicated when neither party is in a fully reasonable state of mind to consent. If this bothers you at all, please don't read.

It’s their rookie year. Patrick’s in a foul mood. He’s tired. He’s hurting. They lost spectacularly. This day can go fuck itself sideways. Jonny’s okay though, or well, he’s not like Patrick who’s so irritable right now that the trainer’s innocuous questions about how his knees feel are pissing him off. 

That night in the hotel room, Jonny moves around him gingerly. When Patrick groans and throws himself down on his mattress with a frustrated noise, Jonny immediately leaves the room. Patrick can’t even be bothered to wonder how he chased him off. A few minutes later though, Jonny comes back with two 32 fl oz bottles from the vending machines. He kicks the side of the bed, jarring Patrick on the mattress. 

“Chill the fuck out, okay,” he says and drops the bottle on Patrick’s stomach. 

“Oof. What the fuck?” Patrick says, holding it up. It’s his favorite flavor of Gatorade. 

Jonny raises his eyebrows at him and after a tense moment, Patrick sighs and raises the bottle in salute. The cap twists off with a satisfying crack and he takes a long swallow and feels a little less tense. He sighs. “Sorry, man, I just need to jerk off and then pass out.”

Jonny turns scarlet before Patrick’s eyes. 

Patrick goggles at him. He knows Jonny’s intense, but refusing to jerk it is a whole new level of abnegation. And Patrick has read studies about that shit, you’re supposed to do it. Jonny’s all about being healthy. “What you don’t--?” He makes the universally recognized gesture with his hand after a protracted pause. 

Jonny drops his chin and shakes his head. “Of course I do, but I wouldn’t--I don’t talk about it,” he whispers furiously. 

Patrick blinks. “Well, I’m gonna--” He points with his thumb to the bathroom. It’s awkward now, but shit’s gotta be taken care of so he’s going to do it anyway. 

Jonny clears his throat. He’s still a nice tomato red. “Yeah, no, you uh--” he flaps his hand, “go ahead.” 

It turns out that statement ‘I don’t talk about it’ is pretty informative about Jonny’s entire concept of sex. 

Which, of course, gains a layer a few years later when Patrick stops by unannounced after practice, because he has a key to Jonny’s apartment and he wants his fucking copy of Modern Warfare back. Jonny keeps stealing it whenever he’s at Patrick’s place and he only notices when he goes to play it and can’t find the case on its shelf. Ideally, tonight, he can just grab it and run. 

When he unlocks the door the lights are already on. Jonny’s gotta be home. 

“Jonny?” he calls with no response. 

He shrugs and moves to the living room, and finds the disc loaded up in the PS3, but then can’t find the box anywhere. Jonny’s such a mess. He’s got a cleaning service, but they’re clearly no match for his clutter. He considers putting it in the DVD case for The Goonies, which lies open and empty on Jonny’s coffee table still open from when they watched it nearly a week ago. He calls, “You’re a cheap fucker, why can’t you just buy your own copy?”

Jonny sort of stumbles unexpectedly out of his bedroom then, tugging up pajama pants and struggling into a t-shirt. His hair is all mussed and he looks extremely flustered. 

“Patrick, hey!” he says a little too loudly. 

Patrick stares at him--the general state of dishabille, the overly bright eyes, the flush on his cheeks. The whole picture snaps into focus. 

“Oh shit,” he says, dropping his voice. “Didn’t uh--didn’t mean to interrupt you.” 

Jonny clears his throat. “What are you doing here?” 

Patrick spins the modern warfare disc on his finger. “I was just coming to pick this up and now I will be leaving.”

“Good plan,” Jonny nods, looking back over his shoulder to his bedroom, where the door has been left ajar. 

“Right, so, uh, sorry? And like, good luck--”” Patrick doesn’t even know why he’s being so awkward. Probably because Jonny and sex are two things he doesn’t really think about. He’s all sweet and boyfriendly with girls. Patrick imagines, when he pauses to think about it, which is pretty much never, that Jonny _must_ have sex. Jonny’s not some religious nut. He’s just a weirdo who gets really embarrassed about getting off. 

Jonny waves sarcastically at him and Patrick turns around to leave, finger threaded through the hole in the disc, just as the soft strains of music filter through the door of Jonny’s bedroom. He freezes. 

“Are you...are you listening to Norah Jones while you get down?” he asks, incredulously. 

Jonny goes fully scarlet. Just like that day rookie year. And that is just priceless. It’s exactly as bad as he and the guys had always joked about. There are probably lit candles in there and a million fluffy pillows. If Jonny had a fireplace he’d probably have his lady stretched out in front of it, gently performing missionary sex. Patrick can’t handle it. He bursts out laughing. 

“Get. Out,” Jonny replies dangerously, shoving at Patrick’s shoulder. “OUT!” 

Patrick laughs so hard tears stream down his face. Jonny has to bodily dram him to the door of his apartment. 

“Jonny, man, I’m sorry,” Patrick says between chuckles, wiping at his eyes, “It’s just so...so you.” 

“Yeah?” Jonny says. “What the fuck would you know?” 

The door slams behind him. 

*

There are a few things Patrick takes for granted. Jonny’s a 1950s school marm about sex. Losing sucks. And more beer is always a good thing. 

The last two they’re all proving quite spectacularly, hiding out at the Terrace bar in Patrick’s building. The restaurant plays some top 40 crap that’s going to get stuck in his head as they mournfully drink a lot of Sierra Nevada and the sympathy cocktails fellow Chicagoans keep sending them. It’s the best recipe to forget Friday ever happened that they could think of. The young guys are mostly hanging out at the bar being loud. Duncs and Seabs sit playing some game on Seabs’s cell phone. And everybody else mills around, letting fans weep on them while they ask for autographs. Well, Patrick might be the only one crying. 

He wouldn’t be nearly so distraught if it had gone down differently. Jonny, by contrast, actually seems okay. He’s lying sacked out on one of the plush terrace couches, eyes closed and hands folded over his stomach. There’s a forest of beer bottles within reach on the low table next to him. Jonny goes through stages of drunk. Happy and handsy and silly and then mellow and sloppy. Earlier he’d been explaining very earnestly how sad it was that hockey players didn’t have ‘walkup’ music. Seabs pointed out that there was no ‘walkup’ in hockey, and he’d launched into an explanation of shift changes and various musical arrangements to accompany them while they’d all watched in bemusement. Or rather, Patrick had watched in bemusement. Everybody else stopped paying attention. The conversation took a turn pretty early on. Jonny knows jack shit about music (The Numa Numa song for Kruger’s line? Alien Ant Farm for anything with Bollig on it?), but choosing Kanye West’s “Stronger” for a Kane-Toews line should it magically reunite _would_ be pretty excellent. Patrick senses some bias here. 

Jonny’s settled down now, many shots later, slumped over on the couch as he is. It’s hard to know looking at him at this moment if they’ve reached the mellow stage, or if he’s bypassed it all together and they’ll have to worry about turning him over. Patrick’s a bad friend, because he thinks about it for a second and then shrugs and doesn’t move. Getting up is hard. 

Saader’s making up for Jonny’s complete lack of agitation in spades. He keeps interrupting conversations with disgruntled muttering about D pairings and Kompon. 

After the sixth time he interjects with “Can I just say--” Patrick’s spews beer painfully out his nose when it provokes him to a laugh mid-swallow. It’s not even funny, except for the part where it’s hilarious. 

“Keep on trucking, Manchild,” he says between hoarse coughs, unable to stop the chuckles despite the burn in his nose. “Keep on trucking.” 

Saader crosses his arms and glares, Patrick shrugs and grins fondly back at him. 

“Ah, quit poking at him,” Smitty says, patting his shoulder. “This is his first real playoff loss!” 

“Like you’re such a veteran!” Saader fires back. 

Smitty laughs and says something about more beer, and Saader gets up and follows him to the bar. Patrick’s pretty sure Leds and Shawzy have designed some trailerpark version of beer pong on an empty table, taking advantage of the waitstaff's kindness. Patrick’s gonna be pissed in the morning when he finds out that they’ve destroyed the restaurant and he won’t be able to come here anymore. It’s really convenient, and Patrick can usually score after bringing people here. He would probably say something if he could be bothered. 

“I feel old,” Patrick announces, staring at the darkening sky. 

“Oh, god, c’mon, I’m 32. Do you know how old that is?” Sharpy says, spinning his bottle around on the table. 

Patrick snorts. “Yeah, lemme get you your dentures, grandpa!” 

“Dentures? What?” Shawzy wanders over unsteadily and sinks down into the empty space on the sofa that Smitty and Saader vacated. He sits too close to Bicks and then smiles sweetly when Bicks glares at him.

“How much space do you need?” Bicks elbows him in the side. 

“I just want to be close to youuuuu,” Shawzy says in a singsong voice. This is the most drunk Patrick’s ever seen him. 

“Heaven help me. Go be close to Kaner,” Bicks says, gesturing at Patrick with his beer bottle.

Patrick raises his brows. He still doesn’t want to move and Shawzy’s drunk enough that he would probably attempt to sit on his lap. This would not be the first time he’s tried it. 

“Nooooo,” Shawzy says after squinting at him for a long moment. “His fat ass takes up too much space.” 

“Sit the fuck down. You love my ass!” Patrick sneers. 

“I _am_ sitting down.” 

“Whatever. My ass is great. Don’t be disrespecting it because I can’t clap it, like some people,” Patrick replies swinging his eyes over to Jonny. Jonny silently raises a hand and flips him off, all without opening his eyes. Well, that answers the question on being passed out. Patrick can stop feeling guilty about not taking appropriate steps to make sure that Jonny doesn’t choke on his own vomit. He ignores Jonny’s one-fingered salute and clears his throat. “My ass is the bomb.” 

“Your ass is lame. A lameass,” Shawzy replies. They’re clearly saving the witty retorts for another day. “Fuckkk, I’m drunk.” 

“Yes, thank you,” Bicks replies, voice dry. “We never ever would’ve guessed.” 

“Tell Kaner his ass his lame.” 

“This is very important to you, Shawzy,” Bicks says, gravely. 

“My ass isn’t lame!” 

Shawzy lists over onto Bicks’ shoulder but he raises his hand to point at Patrick. 

“On a continuum of lame team asses, I think yours is on there.” 

“Nah,” Jonny breaks in. “It’s a perfectly acceptable ass.” 

Patrick salutes him with his beer. “Thanks, friend.” 

“I’ve thought about it,” Jonny continues. 

“What? My ass?” Patrick says with a surprised laugh. It would fit that Jonny would have a continuum of asses. Just so that he could be at the top of it. 

“Mmmhm,” Jonny says. He shifts on the couch, eyelids fluttering. Man, he’s fucked up. Usually when he gets like this, Patrick’s right there with him. It’s interesting, watching him this time, to be so fully cognizant of it. Jonny clears his throat. “Sometimes, when you’re walking around in your tights and it pulls tight? I think about putting my dick in there.” 

Patrick’s mouth drops open. That was not where he was expecting that to go. Not in a million years. He would’ve set the Bovada odds 10 million to 1. It feels like the entire terrace falls silent, collectively wondering if Captain Jonathan Toews of the Blachawks actually just said that. When he looks up Sharpy, Duncs, Seabs, and Bicks _all_ sit frozen, equally astonished. Even schwasted Shawzy looks bowled over. Jonny doesn’t talk like this. Ever. 

“Yeah, or your mouth, bet you you’d suck cock with a smile.” 

Patrick practically swallows his tongue. He stares at Jonny who continues lying on the couch like he’s telling them a fishing story and not talking about fucking Patrick’s ass. How is this even possible? Patrick’s waiting for the lightning to strike them all dead. He makes eye contact with Sharpy. ‘What the fuck?’ he mouths. 

Sharpy shakes his head, burying his face in his hand as he tries to hold back laughter. 

“Uhhhhh,” Shawzy says. Which sums up pretty much exactly what everybody feels. 

Jonny yawns and stretches his arms up over his head, shirt riding up. It’s practically pornographic, especially after the filth that just came out of his mouth. Which, oh god. Now Patrick’s thinking about Jonny and sex. Jonny rolls to his feet, nearly toppling over in the process. “Okay, bitches, I’m callin’ a cab for home,” he says after he’s righted himself. “Good game.” 

“That...game sucked,” Seabs replies dumbly, staring at Jonny like he’s put on a tutu and started dancing the cancan. Sharpy continues silently shaking with repressed laughter, eyes watering and face turning red. Seabs elbows him in the gut. 

“Semantic issue,” Jonny replies. He clears his throat and then pitches his voice louder to reach the entire terrace. “Who’s calling me a cab?” 

He gets about forty offers from fans before he even takes a step. 

“Did he just--” Patrick starts. “About my--” He stutters to a halt again. He can’t even say it. “Am I losing my mind?” 

“I don’t--” Bicks descends into a fit of laughter. They’re all laughing. They laugh until they cry. Apparently only Patrick finds this completely horrifying. 

“That was amazing,” Sharpy replies when he’s settled down. “I think I’ve seen the face of god.” 

“Maybe it was a prank?” Patrick offers weakly. That’s a terrible explanation though. Jonny’s sense of humor runs to dry and sarcastic, not complete mind fuckery. That’s more Sharpy’s jam. Patrick entertains the thought for a moment, looking at him as he wipes his eyes, still chuckling occasionally. Patrick doesn’t think Sharpy is that brilliant. But how could it not be a prank? Jonny cannot possibly have had those thoughts about Patrick. Patrick shared a hotel room with him for years. He would know. For fuck’s sake, Jonny could barely say the word ‘orgasm’ without getting all weird and red and flustered. 

“Okay, I’m gonna be the one to say it,” Duncs says. “Did anybody even know he liked dick?” 

Sharpy shrugs. “I always sort of imagined Jonny didn’t have sex. He just sweetly held hands and stared soulfully into…” he shakes his head, “...whoever’s eyes.” 

That sets everybody off again. Patrick sits mute, brain processing the words ‘you’d suck cock with a smile’ over and over. 

“I am drunk,” Shawzy repeats. “So drunkkkkk.” 

Patrick isn’t drunk enough. 

*

He resolves to put it out of his head. It was just a weird thing that happened. Weird things happen sometimes. Patrick knows this. He’s woken up in some strange places with some strange people. He’s been so drunk that the shit spewing out of his mouth was unconnected to his brain. Jonny just had one of those nights. And like, decided to fuck with them or something. 

All the other guys act like it isn’t a big deal when they go to the Cubs game and Jonny himself seems aggressively normal. He passes by Patrick when he’s going to get more beer and taps him on the shoulder. Patrick feels the touch through his shirt like the fabric isn’t even there. Like Jonny’s fingertips are on fire. 

“You want anything?” he asks. 

Patrick stares up at him, taking so long to respond that Jonny raises his brows. Patrick clears his throat. “Uh, yeah, sure, whatever’s on tap.” 

Jonny laughs and flicks his ear. “Okay, spazz.” 

“Why do you look like that?” Shawzy asks, staring at his red face. 

Patrick shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s fine.” But he can’t stop thinking about it. The way Jonny’d looked when he said it. So unabashed. When Jonny returns with beer, he hands Kaner his, and then claps him perfunctorily on the shoulder, just the same as he did before. Patrick hates how he notices the way Jonny’s thumb strokes idly over the back of his neck. It probably means nothing. Just Jonny pulling his hand away. Totally cool. 

“Seriously, bro, what’s with you?” Shawzy asks. 

Patrick groans and takes a long bracing swallow of beer. “It’s really nothing.”

Shawzy narrows his eyes. “This isn’t about what Jonny said the other night?” 

“You remember that?” Patrick asks. 

“Hell yes, I remember that. That was comedy gold, my brother,” Shawzy laughs. “I made Bicks text me a recap so that I wouldn’t forget.” 

Patrick wants him to die a fiery death. This all started because of Shawzy and his talk of lameasses. He hopes his look communicates as much.

“Nope, try again,” Shawzy replies. “Next time more rage in the eyes. Think of our fearless leader.” 

Patrick remembers the days when Shawzy feared him. How he was all shy and awestruck in Patrick’s presence. The salad days. Patrick would like them back. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Shawzy says, interrupting his musings. “I think he was just trying to make you feel better about your lackluster ass, in a very Jonny way.” 

Patrick ignores the barb. “Well he’s all,” he gestures nebulously with his hand, “touchy now.” 

Except, at that exact moment, Jonny tugs Smitty in, an arm around his neck, to whisper something in his ear, close enough that his lips graze Smitty’s earlobe. Smitty looks completely unbothered by this violation of his space, and after a moment Jonny ruffles his hair and moves on to talk to somebody else, 

Shawzy shoots Patrick a look, and says, voice dry, “You don’t suppose he wants to fuck Smitty’s ass, do you?” 

Alright, alright. He might be overreacting. The thing is. It’s weird, because the whole determined choir boy thing deterred thoughts about him and fucking, but there have been times over the years. Times when he’s been so full-up with love for Jonny’s hockey and his stupid ‘ain’t no way out but through’ attitude that he hasn’t quite known what to do with it. That never translated into anything further in his head, but now Jonny’s stupid drunkass pronouncement is making him think things. Dangerous things. 

*

But he doesn’t stop noticing, which is stupid, because, Shawzy’s right. Jonny always has been this way. Patrick’s stumbling point lies in the fact that he simply can’t be interested in Jonny. He loves his hilarious huge ass. He would travel to the ends of the earth for him, and make all kinds of sacrifices to stay on the same roster. But he’s not attracted to him--there’s what Patrick feels for Jonny and there’s what Patrick feels for people he wants to bang. They’re not the same. He’s had thoughts, because, sometimes, sitting on the bench, Jonny winds him up so tight, all he can do is imagine shoving his dick past those pretty pink lips, Jonny’s eyes going wide, tears spilling out at the corners. But that is definitely not a sex thing. Patrick also has those thoughts about Matt Cooke, and more recently, despite fairly congenial Olympic relations, David Backes. So he doesn’t look too hard at that as a sign of wanting to fuck Jonny. Sometimes, he just wants one over on him so hard.

Crow’s buddy has a boat. It’s a really nice one, a fancy Feadship that makes them all ooh and ahh. Naturally, Shawzy manages to annoy Crow into asking his friend if they can take it out. 

Patrick always wants to buy a yacht whenever he gets invited to one of these things. Sharpy, who has become the worst dick softener since Abby domesticated him, always councils against it. 

“You’ve got money, little man,” he’ll point out. “But not that kind of money.” 

But, hanging out in the prow, snoozing on one of the padded benches, half paying attention to the guys talking around him, the idea’s starting to look attractive all over again. It’s hot out, but there’s a nice breeze off the water and a pleasant lassitude has set in to his bones. Somebody keeps fiddling with the music which bounces around from Bryan Adams to OneRepublic. It’s terrible, but he’s drunk enough that even though he means to say something about it, he keeps forgetting. 

Jonny flops down onto Patrick’s bench, right by his feet, and knocks into his ankles, sloppy from too many beers. Patrick makes a noise of protest. “This seat is taken,” he says grumpily, pushing his sunglasses up his nose with a meaningful glare. 

Jonny’s got a bottle of Goose Island dripping with condensation in his hand and he touches the freezing cold surface to Patrick’s calf. “Shove over, fatass.” 

Patrick curses and pulls his legs away. Jonny uses that moment to slide over, sprawling out on the bench. Patrick rolls his eyes at him. “The fatass you apparently love,” he bitches and stretches his legs back out over Jonny’s lap, making sure to knock him in the ribs with his knee. If he wants to be here he can fucking deal. Jonny doesn’t engage with the ass comment and he doesn’t do anything other than grunt when Patrick shifts and deliberately catches him in the gut. Patrick closes his eyes and listens with half an ear to the conversation around him. Jonny’s skin is warm and smooth everywhere they touch. He smells like sunscreen and deodorant, with the faint smoky edge of whiskey , like he spilled some on himself at some point. Patrick shifts again and Jonny grumbles, catching at his knee to hold him still. 

He doesn’t even notice that he’s fallen asleep until Shawzy shouts, “Hey, Captain, you got any plans for this summer?” He’s only a few feet away and it jolts Patrick uncomfortably right out of his nap.

Jonny laughs at the expression on his face and flicks his ear. 

“Quit it!” Patrick replies, plaintively, batting at his hands. 

“Well?” Shawzy repeats. 

Jonny looks back at him and makes this slightly bitter noise in the back of his throat. “Didn’t want to plan too far ahead.” Patrick feels an answering pang low in his stomach. Being eliminated like that was going to hurt for a long time coming. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t like the introspective look on Jonny’s face either. 

“This music is terrible,” Patrick calls out when Maroon 5 comes on for the fifth time. 

“Whiner!” Crow yells back, but he must adjust the Pandora station, because the familiar opening guitar riff for ‘All The Small Things’ plays. 

“A+, Corey,” Patrick calls back, opening his eyes and flinging an arm out in celebration. Jonny snorts with laughter, but when the first verse starts up, he sings along with Patrick, “ ‘All the small things. True care, truth brings. I'll take one lift. Your ride, best trip.’ “ 

You can’t be off-key to this song, but they both manage it pretty spectacularly. Patrick taps the beat out on the bench and grins. “I haven’t heard this in years. Like, not since middle school,” he tells Jonny. “Worst idea. This song is the bomb.” 

Jonny nods very seriously. “Seventh grade maybe?” He shakes his head a little too hard. Jonny’s a disaster when he’s drunk. Patrick should tell him. He’s just leading up to it when Jonny says, “My brother bought ‘Take Off Your Pants and Jacket’ with some money my grandparents gave him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother so mad.”

Patrick imagines that and cracks up. He’s always pictured Jonny’s family as very prim and proper--David’s clearly the rebel, because he’s salty as hell and exhibit a, a dirty Blink-182 album Patrick hadn’t even attempted to bring home. They didn’t have graphic conversations about sex growing up in his house either, but it was a thing they could all acknowledge happened. His mom had given him the most embarrassing sex talk complete with a book and a lot of talk about birth control, because his dad had been too chickenshit. By contrast, he’s never even heard Jonny make so much as an innuendo and revelation of the last few days aside, it’s still weird to hear that coming out of his mouth. It’s tame, but considering the source, it sounds downright racy. He laughs harder. How victorian. It’s like getting turned on at the sight of an ankle because women were wearing those huge tent dresses that hid everything. 

Patrick starts singing again and the other guys join in at the chorus line until all of them are shouting along, “ ‘Say it ain’t so, I will not go, Turn the lights off, Carry Me Home.’” 

Patrick notes absently that Jonny’s running his thumb along Patrick’s shinbone, touch light. It tickles a little, but it feels good. Patrick likes being touched. He looks up at Jonny’s face, trying to read it, but Jonny’s distracted, shaking his head at some complaint that Kruger made about North American music. Patrick needs more beer, he decides, and climbs unsteadily to his feet. 

After taking what seems to be his fifth piss break in the last two hours, he decides to wander around a little. There’s a wet bar and a game room. Those things he’s already intimately acquainted with. There seems to be yet another game of beer pong going. Everybody else is out on the deck, lounging in the sun. He wanders through a bunch of different guest cabins, finds the ridiculous sauna, and jacuzzi, and thinks to himself, yeah, okay, maybe the yacht is a bit excessive. 

One of the cabins lets right out onto the swimming platform off the stern. When he walks back into the sunlight he has to shade his eyes against the sun, glare coming off the lake blinding him. Slowly adjusting to the sudden brightness, he finds Jonny already there, leaning against the railing, eyes on the Chicago skyline. He hopes Jonny hasn’t reached the drunk and broody stage. Patrick hates that about Jonny. He’s fine and exuberant and excited until the moment where he just isn’t, and then he’s caustic and moody. 

Somebody turns the music up again. Patrick wouldn’t be surprised if the people on the shore could hear the strains of the Rihanna song playing. Jonny turns around to look at him when he starts humming to the chorus. He rolls his eyes when Patrick does a little shoulder shuffle. 

“God save us all,” he says, but he smiles. Patrick is relieved. 

“‘C’mere, rude boy boy, can you get it up? C’mere, rude boy boy, is you big enough?’” Patrick sings along, knowing it’s going to put a blush on Jonny’s face. 

His cheeks do go pink, but Jonny straightens up against the railing, eyes intent upon Patrick. “That is the question, isn’t it.” 

“What?” Patrick asks. Those last couple of shots he had makes the logic of that hard to follow--especially Jonathan Toews’ logic. 

“Am I big enough?” Jonny answers with a firm nod. 

Patrick laughs uproariously and holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry I never gave you enough credit for getting up to all kinds of strange. Consider my illusions shattered.” 

“You have no clue what you’re talking about,” Jonny replies, voice deceptively mild. 

“Oh yeah? What’s kinky for you, Norah Jones?” Patrick fires back, swaying into the railing. “Slipping a girl some tongue?” 

Jonny drops his eyes, snickering like he knows something Patrick doesn’t. “C’mere,” he says, towing Patrick in with a too tight grip on his wrist. 

Patrick watches him, confused, as Jonny leans in, catching Patrick’s mouth in the sweetest lightest kiss. He freezes up. There’s probably an appropriate response to this, but his brain has gone kind of fuzzily blank, lips tingling from the soft sweep of Jonny’s mouth over his. Jonny pulls back a little, only just enough to give Patrick space to breathe. The image of Jonny having gentle missionary sex to Norah Jones swims back up before his eyes. He starts giggling again, but Jonny slants his mouth back over Patrick’s, cutting him off. It’s a kiss of a very different color, wet and deep, Jonny crowding against him. 

The world whirls in circles around them. He’s dizzy and disoriented, and Jonny walking him away from the railing back into the cabin Patrick just came out of, happens. He knows it did, because now he’s lying flat on a bed with crinkly sheets that have clearly never been slept on, but he doesn’t remember how he got from there to here. Jonny’s stretched out over him, warm bare skin against his and the solid weight of his body making Patrick shudder. Kissing Jonny is a great idea. Everything feels so good right now, he’s unsure why he didn’t think of it sooner. 

Jonny tears his mouth away to look down at him. Patrick blinks back at him. The room spins and they’re at the epicenter, lying together in this too warm cabin, limbs tangled in some bizarre geometry. The pause stretches out, making Patrick blush and look away from the intensity of Jonny’s stare. He’s not sure if he’s ever been looked at like that before. Not by anyone. Jonny makes a noise in the back of his throat and leans back in again, kissing him, hard. Patrick’s just about to ask him what he’s up to, but the world whirls around him again as Jonny flips Patrick over onto stomach,

“Jonny, what!” Patrick protests, craning to look over his shoulder at him. Jonny’s eyes remain dark and unreadable. 

“Shh,” he whispers, pushing down on Patrick’s shoulder and forcing his chest flat to the bed. His hand feels hot like a brand, and when he lifts his fingers and brushes his mouth over that exact place Patrick hisses. The desire to get Jonny’s mouth on him everywhere threatens to drown him. He considers telling him to do it again, but what would he even say? His brain works through options a half-step too slow. He jerks in surprise when Jonny tugs at his swim trunks, dragging them down his thighs, fingertips skimming over his skin. That simple touch lights Patrick up like a candle, drunk and hornier than he’s been in a while. Patrick doesn’t know what’s going on, but he’s always been a pliable drunk, and he likes the feel of Jonny’s strong hands. 

“Ugh,” he shudders again, hard, as Jonny drags flat palms across his back, “feels good.” 

Jonny ghosts his mouth down along the divot in Patrick’s spine. His tongue flickers out when when he reaches the dip just before his ass--the place where his skin abruptly pales because he’s been spending so much time outdoors in a bathing suit. He rolls his hips down into the bed. Jonny’s mouth keeps drifting lower, lips just grazing the skin, until he’s pressing wet kisses just above the crease. “What are you doing?” Patrick asks, voice ragged. 

Jonny’s answer is to spread Patrick’s cheeks with firm hands and tongue a line directly over his hole. It sends a shocked spike of sensation up his spine. It feels good, but-- “Jonny, you shouldn’t--” he cuts himself off when Jonny drags his tongue across his hole in a flat broad sweep, once and then twice more. Patrick shakes, fingers fisting in the sheets. Christ, Jonny can do whatever the fuck he wants. 

Jonny makes a soft noise. “Bring your knee up the bed,” he says, smooth and authoritative. His best Captain voice. Instinctively, Patrick obeys, drawing his left leg up. He feels Jonny’s breath, hot over his spit-slicked pucker, and blinks, dazedly. Nobody’s ever touched Patrick here. He wouldn’t have let them if they tried, but god, he doesn’t want Jonny to stop. He lies there, a soused mess, practically vibrating out of his skin as Jonny licks a long stripe from the back off his balls up over his hole, tongue prodding against the ring of muscle on the next pass. 

It’s hot enough in this little room that Patrick’s skin sticks to the sheets. The hair at the back of his neck is gathering damp. It’s fucking disgusting, trying to take long inhales of the soupy air. Jonny holds Patrick’s hole open with his thumbs so he can thrust his tongue inside. His grip is too warm, too much for this temperature, but the strong pushes of Jonny’s tongue hold him captive. He knows he’s making too much noise, stupid caught groans and sharp cries when Jonny tugs him wider still, thumb dragging down over his perineum. He grinds his dick into the sheets, erection caught under his belly. 

“Fuck, oh, fuck,” he mutters, when Jonny retreats, using just the point of his tongue to circle Patrick’s opening with a delicate lick. The alcohol has made his arousal less insistent. A slow burn that was almost separate from the way that Jonny was tonguing at him, but now it’s loud and clamoring through him. He wants to get off this moment. He wants Jonny to force that tongue inside of him. Although he thinks, oblique and unwanted, that may not be enough--he may need Jonny’s fingers. He may need Jonny’s dick. 

There are people out on the swim platform now, he can hear them calling to each other, talking about what to do now that they’re running low on beer. He brings his arm up to his mouth, muffling the cries threatening to break past his lips. He wants to jerk himself off, finish this, but Jonny won’t let him, holding him flat to the bed with a restraining arm across the small of his back. It’s too tight to worm a hand under there, so he’s left squirming against the sheets, shoving his dick into them. Jonny makes a pleased noise. It pisses Patrick off, even as his blood runs hotter. Shamefully making him tilt his hips back up into Jonny’s mouth. He curses when Jonny turns his face away to bite at the cheek instead, moving to mouth along the line where his ass meets his thigh. Jonny’s eyelashes trail over his skin and Patrick mewls pitifully. He can’t turn around to look, but he imagines Jonny’s face, expression intent, eyes closed as he shifts again, and finally, finally gets back to eating out Patrick’s ass. 

Patrick’s entire world is centered down to Jonny’s mouth and the sweat rising on his skin, rolling down his spine in fat drops to pool at the small of his back. He wants to come so bad, he needs it. He feels like his brain’s about to short out. When he finally does, thigh muscles locked up, biting down on his forearm, it takes him by complete surprise. He comes so hard he loses a little time and only comes back to himself when Jonny gently pushes him flat onto his back, knee-walking up the bed to kneel over Patrick’s middle. There are still voices murmuring on the other side of the door with no idea what’s happening in here. Patrick should care. He knows he should care. He doesn’t. 

He eyes Jonny’s hard-on pressed crudely up against the fabric of his trunks. He doesn’t even take them off just shoves them below his balls, and wraps a loose fist around his dick, palming the head a few times and then getting down to business and jerking himself off with fast strokes. Patrick stares up at him, lips parted, still feeling the buzz of that orgasm through his system. Jonny groans and leans forward, bracing himself with a palm on the pillow, right next to Patrick’s head. He doesn’t last long, his hand a blur on his dick. Patrick watches the way the muscles in his abdomen tighten just before he comes with a stuttered exhalation, thick fat gobs of it spurting out. Some of it spatters onto Patrick’s face, on his mouth and cheeks. He gasps, startled, fingers flexing into the sheets. It shouldn’t be hot. It should piss him the fuck off. But he has to breathe a few times to reign himself back in. There’s no way he can take round two. No way. 

Jonny flops to the side, dick lying spent against his thigh. “Sorry,” he whispers. 

Patrick wipes his come off his face. “Sloppy,” he says. They’ve trashed the bed. Corey’s friend is definitely going to know somebody was getting down in here. 

He looks over at Jonny to find him already looking back, chewing on his lower lip like he’s thinking about something. “What’s up?” Patrick asks muzzily, reminding himself he’s not allowed to slide down into sleep. 

Jonny reaches out, thumb trailing across his cheek. “Lemme take you out.” 

Patrick breathes deep. There are a million answers to that question. Somehow he still finds himself saying, “When?” rather than the more pertinent ‘why?’

*

So Patrick has a date with Jonny tonight. 

But that is not the real issue here. The real issue is Patrick just got a motherfucking rim job, on a boat, with his teammates on the other side of the door. From Jonathan Toews. Pearl clutching debutant Jonathan Toews. They all misread that one, that’s for sure. 

The memory is soft and faded, parts dropping in and out, random things coming back to him as he goes about his normal day--the sound of the waves outside the room, the way Jonny’s fingers had felt, sinking into his buttocks as he pulled his cheeks apart, the sounds Jonny made as he was coming. It’s like a dream almost. A stupid hot dream. 

Patrick’s had a lot of drunk sex. He doesn’t ever remember turning red and going hot all over every time he thought about it the next day. Now though, doing some quick bench presses in his home gym, he has to set the bar back in its cradle just to give himself a moment to breathe. 

“Fuck me,” he breathes. Closing his eyes, he reaches down and palms himself through his shorts. 

That night, Jonny picks him up and Patrick can’t even look at him the same way. He’s wearing a long sleeve crew-neck Patrick’s seen him in a million times before and boring old jeans, and Patrick wants to eat him. He imagines running his mouth over the veins in Jonny’s forearms bared by his rolled-up sleeves. 

“You’re blushing,” Jonny points out as they’re driving over to the restaurant. 

Patrick flushes even darker. His cheeks feel tight and hot. Just trying to talk about it gets him halfway to hard. “Well! Yeah, I mean, you--you---” he struggles and then throws up his hands. He can’t even say it out loud. 

Jonny looks over at him, small smile on his face, but he’s coloring up as well. “I told you that you didn’t know shit.” 

Patrick touches his face, remembers the hot line of Jonny’s come running down over his chin, and has to bite at his lip to remind himself to focus. 

“So, all your girlfriends…” he trails off meaningfully. 

Jonny shrugs and fiddles with the radio a bit, suddenly uncomfortable. 

“Yo, what’s up?” Patrick asks, unsure what to make of Jonny’s uneasiness. 

Jonny starts to say something a couple of times before he finally sighs and answers, “Not everybody is into it. Like, what we did--” he raises a hand, “that’s nothing. I just--I think about it a lot. I know it’s not normal.” 

Patrick blinks at him. “Not normal to think about fucking?” 

“Not the way I want it,” Jonny replies, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. He keeps his eyes firmly on the road as he says it. Patrick’s trying to think of what to say in response to that, but Jonny slides into a parking spot and turns off the engine. If he learned anything over the years it’s that with Jonny, it’s better not to push. Right now, it seems easier to just let it go. 

Except, he doesn’t want to. He’s insatiably curious. He wants to know everything. Jonny’s been keeping this entire side of him locked so tight under wraps that none of them had a fucking clue. It makes Patrick feel--he can’t explain it. Disappointed in himself for not realizing, maybe. 

They end up seated at a nice outdoor table. Jonny gets points for being romantic. Although frankly, Patrick’s still his buddy. He could’ve taken him to beer and wings and he would’ve been all over that shit. But Jonny plays Norah Jones while, _apparently_ , getting up to kinky shit, so who even knows with this guy anymore. 

He waits until they’re halfway through dinner to ask, “So, what all have you done?” 

“Where?” Jonny asks blankly, taking a swallow from his glass of wine. 

Patrick rolls his eyes. “In bed! Fucking! What kinda shit are you into exactly?” 

Jonny chokes and has to set the wine glass back down on the table to cough into his napkin. He darts his eyes around the restaurant, but there’s nobody sitting that close to them and the music, some latin song with a swift beat, is pretty loud. Patrick timed it well. 

He ducks his head and then shrugs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I dunno.” He runs his teeth over his lower lip. “Name something?” 

Patrick has to think for a moment. “Uh, getting fucked in the ass--” he tilts his head and then adds, “by a chick.” 

Jonny nods, eyes downcast as he folds and unfolds his napkin. “Done it.” 

“Felching,” Patrick tosses out. He’s basically going down a list of terms he and his friends cackled about on urban dictionary back in juniors. 

Jonny clears his throat and sets the napkin aside, meeting Patrick’s gaze head on. “Yup.” 

Patrick leans back in his chair. “Fisting.” 

Jonny shakes his head no. 

“Snowballing.” 

Jonny laughs, like he’s remembering a specific instance. “Yes.” He’s the reddest that Patrick has ever seen him, but he looks a little less like he’s going to crawl right out of his skin. 

The thing is that Patrick’s pretty vanilla. He’s straight forward. He likes sex. He likes sticking his dick in things. He’s never really thought beyond that. Patrick tries to think of some of the shit that he’s seen in porn. “BDSM!” 

“Yes on the BD. No on the SM.” 

Patrick has to run what the acronym stands for through his head to parse that one. Bondage and discipline. He takes Jonny in, the way he sits across from Patrick answering his questions, and wonders which side of that he falls on. He could see both. Jonny tied flat to the bed, blindfolded, straining for dick. Or the other way, softly ordering somebody around in that no nonsense voice that always makes Patrick hop to, especially because he so rarely bothers to use it. Now Patrick’s the one blushing. He can tell Jonny notices from the way he presses his lips inward, hiding a smile. He waits for it, but Jonny doesn’t tease him. 

“Golden showers,” Patrick says after a moment, deliberately choosing something less, well, hot, in his opinion. 

“Eh,” Jonny says, drawing the syllable out, and Patrick sees the way he’s totally thinking ‘comme ci comme ça’ and laughs. 

Patrick’s definitely starting to scrape the bottom of the barrel for kinky shit. He knows there’s other stuff, but he’s never investigated this kind of thing, so he’s kind of at a loss. “What about...sex in public?” 

Jonny makes a face, considering. “How public?” 

Patrick snorts. “Imma take that as a yes.” 

“It was inside a tent at R.E.I., so...not like, in front of anybody,” Jonny clarifies. 

Patrick stares at him, impressed. “Uh, that totally counts--who the hell was that with?” 

Jonny shakes his head. “Nope. Not telling.” 

Patrick sighs. He should’ve seen that one coming. Up until yesterday, the only conversation Patrick had had about sex with Jonny was Jonny telling him to get out of his apartment in the middle of getting interrupted. And he wonders now, just what was happening on the other side of that door. Ugh, god. It’s another kind of hot thought. Jonny fucking some girl silly. “Okay, what about threesomes?” 

“Patrick, _you_ had a threesome,” Jonny replies, like that doesn’t really count as kinky shit. 

“I didn’t tell you about that!” He hadn’t. He’d been very respectful and made sure not to say anything about it to Jonny, because Jonny didn’t approve of kissing and telling. It had nearly killed him at the time, because it was, up to that point, one of the single greatest achievements of his life. 

Jonny lets out a bright peal of laughter. “You told _everybody_ about that one. You thought it wouldn’t get back to me?”

“I mean, two girls at once! It was awesome,” Patrick replies, “What? You did better, hotshot?” 

Jonny rubs his hand across his face, fingertips lingering at his mouth, just like when he’s asked a question in an interview and trying to come up with a simple answer. “I’ve done it. Not really for me.” 

Something about the way he says it and looks at Patrick makes him go warm all over. He looks down at his plate and his half-forgotten dinner, before biting his lip, and saying, “What do you want to do to me?” 

Jonny puts his hand flat on the table so that it rests next to Patrick’s. “To you? God, Patrick, you don’t even know.” He leans in, chin on his fist. To an outside observer it would look completely casual, but his voice has dropped an entire octave, and the look in his eyes--Patrick has only seen that one other time, yesterday, when he was coming all over Patrick’s face. “I want to fuck you until you’re begging me to let you get off. I wanna do it everywhere. In the locker room. In every locker room. I wanna fuck you with the guys just around the corner, completely unaware that you’re getting stuffed full of dick over and over. I wanna feed you my come and mark you up. I want to bite at your little nipples, make you moan, and then I want you to ride me cross-eyed.” He carefully overlaps his pinky over Patrick’s thumb, stroking along it, just subtle enough for nobody to notice. “And I want your dick. Fuck, your beautiful dick. I want that pounding me open. I want you to make me take it. I want you any way you’ll have me.” 

Patrick swallows, dry throat clicking. He’s stiff as a rock in his jeans, so turned on he’s shaking with it. “Okay.” 

Jonny’s mouth turns up at the corners. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick repeats. 

*

When they gets back to Jonny’s place, he doesn’t know where to start. 

“Wherever you want,” Jonny says tentatively as he strips off his clothes. Like Patrick’s going to change his mind and run out of there. Patrick remembers what he said about being made to take it, so he shoves Jonny back onto his bed, and climbs on top of him fully clothed, holding him down as he tongue-fucks his mouth. He’s rough, rougher than he ever would be with a girl, trusting Jonny to be able to handle it. He keeps his hands deliberately harsh, reveling in the soft mmm-ing noises that he pulls out of Jonny’s mouth. But when he relaxes his grip on Jonny’s wrists, smoothing his hands down along that vulnerable skin over the tracery of veins, not entirely letting go, that’s when Jonny’s hips lift off the bed and this broken cry comes out of his mouth. The contrast, Patrick realizes then, is important. 

He allows it to become this slow and easy slide against each other, Patrick rocking down into him. Jonny’s wrists still pinned flat up by his head. He only tests Patrick’s grip once, and he chuckles when Patrick immediately cages his hands tight around his arms, holding him in place. “Getting into it, eh?” 

Patrick nips at Jonny’s lower lip and tugs, sucking the swollen flesh into his mouth with a slick pop. “You tell me,” he breathes, pulling up just enough to look down at him. He runs his fingers over the sharp cut muscles in Jonny’s chest and abdominals and then back up over his arms. Jonny turns his cheek to follow the slow progress of Patrick’s right hand up his arm. 

“God, your hands,” Jonny says, eyelids fluttering, arching into the touch even though Patrick’s just stroking his arm. “Take your clothes off,” Jonny tells him, voice full of gravel and eyes half-lidded. He’s all flushed up, but it’s from arousal not embarrassment. Patrick’s learning the difference. 

He sits up, straddling Jonny’s hips. Slowly he strips off his shirt, taking his time with it, inching the fabric up. Jonny’s eyes run over his chest, drinking him in. Patrick has to shut his eyes. He’s not sure how to handle that yet--being looked at like that. Patrick takes care of his pants next, one leg and then the other, and Jonny lies still, watching him, hands exactly where Patrick placed them. 

He moves after Patrick shrugs his boxer-briefs off . Tugging Patrick down again with a hand at the back of his neck. He catches him up in a kiss and then rolls, blanketing Patrick with his entire body. Patrick shocks himself with a moan. That’s Jonny’s dick against his belly. And it’s stupid, and he’s got no clue if he’ll actually like it, but this all started because Jonny said he wanted to fuck Patrick’s ass. He wants to find out what that’s like. Wants to see what Jonny’s gonna do to him. Jonny moves against him, kissing along his throat. Patrick clutches at his back, fingertips digging in to bite at the flesh on Jonny’s shoulders. Jonny makes an appreciative noise and rolls his hips. 

Patrick’s gonna have to ask for it. He knows this. It still takes him a while to get the words out. It’s not until Jonny’s started in on his nipples, kissing and licking them into stiff peaks, that he finally breaks. He cups the back of Jonny’s head with his hand, running his fingers through the soft hair at his nape. “Can you--” he starts and then stops. 

Jonny rests his chin on Patrick’s sternum, meeting Patrick’s eyes. For a second he thinks Jonny’s gonna make him work for it, make him actually say it. But Jonny smiles slowly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah,” he says, like he knows everything that Patrick could want. 

Patrick breathes out. “Do you have--” 

“Yeah,” Jonny answers again, leaning over to rummage around in his nightstand. It takes him a little bit, because true to form he’s got everything stuffed in there. Multiple rolls of condoms. Magazines. Pens. Assorted change. Eventually he comes up with a tube. 

Jonny gives him a speculative look. “Have you ever fingered yourself before?” 

Patrick lifts his chin. “Yes.” 

“Show me,” Jonny tells him, handing over the lube. He sits back on his feet between Patrick’s thighs, eyes intent upon him. Patrick lifts his right leg, knee bent and foot flat to the bed. Biting tight at his lip, he slicks his fingers up with a pornographic squelch and then trails them down his body, past his fat bobbing erection, to flirt with his hole. Jonny draws his hand along his bent leg, lingering at his knee. He keeps touching him like that, steady strokes of his fingertips, but his gaze follows the passage of Patrick’s hand as he slowly presses a finger inside. In and out, he pushes, just to get used to the width of it. After a time, his hole greedily sucking up his own finger, he forces in his middle along with it, breathing in. 

Jonny makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, hand tightening reflexively on Patrick’s knee. Patrick stares up at him and feeling his gaze, Jonny looks away from the motion of Patrick’s hand to meet Patrick’s eyes. When Patrick angles his fingers just right to drive up against his prostate and curses, overcome, Jonny sucks in a breath. Patrick reaches down with his left hand and starts slowly jerking his dick. Jonny doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t touch him anywhere else either, just gentle touches along Patrick’s knee. Soon Patrick’s squirming on his own fingers, breathing hard, precome everywhere, dribbling down over his abs, making his hand sticky, shiny between his fingers. Jonny smiles, this slight tilt of his lips, and leans down, catching his mouth in a hot desperate kiss, bent in such a way that Patrick still has room to work. 

He isn’t expecting it at all when Jonny reaches between them, and pushes in a finger, curving it alongside Patrick’s own. His hips come up off the bed and he cries out, short and sharp into Jonny’s mouth. The stretch is so good, Jonny’s thick knuckles catching at his opening with every thrust inside. 

“Can you take another?” Jonny asks against Patrick’s mouth, breathing in Patrick’s breaths. Patrick nods and arches as a second finger joins the first. There’s four fingers in him now, two of his and two of Jonny’s, the most he’s ever had. It’s a little overwhelming. Jonny sweeps kisses over his closed eyelids and nuzzles at his cheek, keeping the motion of their hands steady when he tries to speed up. He’s getting really fucking close now. Just from this--the persistent stretch on his hole, Jonny’s body boxing him in on the bed, everything. Soft ‘hah’s come out of his mouth at every shove in and out, over and over. It’s spine-meltingly good. Patrick can’t figure out what to do with himself. 

He’s still working his dick, but he doesn’t want to come just yet, not without Jonny inside him. He squeezes his fingers hard in a loop at the base, staving off orgasm. “C’mon, man, now is good,” he manages, just as Jonny snaps his wrist in such away that drives Patrick’s own fingers against his prostate. He lets out a strangled moan, twisting underneath Jonny. “Oh, god, please. Fucking please.” 

Jonny cups his chin, tilting him straight into another kiss. “Okay,” he says softly when he pulls away again. “Okay.” 

Jonny pulls his fingers free to get the condom on. Patrick watches with interest as the latex rolls down over his dick, Jonny’s hand smoothing it down. 

“You wanna take your fingers out?” he asks, positioning himself at Patrick’s entrance. He’s genuinely asking, Patrick realizes. He considers for a moment what that would be like, Jonny fucking him, dick thrusting in alongside his fingers, how full he’d feel. It’s too much to handle this time, he thinks, so he slides them out, wiping the excess lube down Jonny’s ribs. Jonny rolls his eyes at him, and it feels so much like their normal dynamic for a moment, Patrick’s breath catches. Jonny must see something in his face, because he holds himself at Patrick's entrance and then pushes inside with a quick roll of his hips. Patrick loves the punched out sound he makes when he’s fully seated, forehead dropping to Patrick’s shoulder. God he wants more of that. Jonny feels huge inside him as he fucks him slow and deep, lingering, making Patrick really feel his dick, before pulling back out again. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick groans, shuddering all over, clinging tight to Jonny’s broad back. “Fuck you." 

Jonny shakes with breathless laughter. He doesn’t stop. After a while, hips drumming steadily, dick piercing him open, Jonny makes a noise in the back of his throat and sits back again on his heels, getting his thighs under Patrick’s ass. There’s sweat gathering at his temples from exertion, hair sticking to his forehead. 

“You should-” he starts, but breaks off completely when Patrick adjusts his hips, changing up the angle so that he tightens around Jonny like a vise. Jonny shuts his eyes and drops back down again, pressing Patrick’s knees back to his chest, with a defeated moan. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t--”

“Yeah, yeah, just like this,” Patrick moans, interrupting his muttered apologies, “I want you to go hard.” 

He reaches back between them and starts jerking his dick again. The double-sensation of Jonny fucking him at the same time threatens to undo him completely. He’d stroke himself off fast ordinarily, grip tight. But he hesitates, rubbing another spurt of precome back into his skin, keeping his thumb and forefinger a loose tease. He digs his head back into the pillow, tongue caught between his teeth.

“Patrick,” Jonny says almost reverently, holding back for one long moment more, as if trying to prove something to himself. Patrick stares up at him under heavy lids, a shiver going through him as he thumbs the head of his dick. Finally, Jonny breaks and gets all the power of his thighs into it, flexing his hips hard, pounding Patrick back into the mattress. Patrick watches fascinated as Jonny’s dick disappears into his body. He clenches around him, bearing down so hard it forces Jonny’s cockhead right against his prostate. At the sound that comes out of his mouth, Jonny gets it. He moves in short, sharp stabs, hitting that place over and over until Patrick simply can’t take it anymore. He arches beneath Jonny, coming on a silent cry, jizzing up his own chest. Jonny follows him over the edge only a few moments later, hands clenching almost painfully on Patrick’s thighs. Patrick can’t stop shaking underneath him, orgasm still reverbing through him hard. 

Jonny’s careful not to collapse down on top of him, but Patrick can tell it’s costing him. He breathes in deep, harsh gasps, completely winded. “Sorry,” he says against Patrick’s throat, voice soft with some emotion Patrick couldn’t name. “Just gimme a moment…” 

“You’re fine, you’re perfect,” Patrick whispers, tugging him in close. 

*

After their contracts get signed and before the start of the convention, they go out to dinner with a couple of guys to celebrate. The guys still don’t know. Or they know that Patrick has started seeing somebody, because Patrick kept canceling plans on Sharpy, and he’s a bad fucking liar. They don’t know yet that the person he’s seeing is Jonny. 

Sharpy’s exuberant because now that they’ve brought Richards in, he’s finally started to settle down about the trade rumors. He’d kept saying it didn’t bother him, but nobody believed him for a moment. 

The waitress that night flirts hard with Jonny, refilling his water glass every five seconds and being overly solicitous. Jonny’s doing his best to accept it with grace, but he’s so awkward it’s like watching a trainwreck, and absolutely none of them are helping him at all. Especially because she’s hot--tall and stacked. Any of them would be glad to have a girl like that hitting on them. 

“You let me know if I can do anything else for you,” she says, leaning down, hand gliding over his shoulder. 

“Thank you!” Jonny replies brightly. “I think I’m all good.” 

When she walks away he mouths ‘holy shit’ to the table and takes a long bracing swallow of his water. Everybody cracks up. 

“You should get her number,” Sharpy says with a grin. “You guys can hold hands.” 

Jonny shakes his head and throws his wadded up napkin at him. “I love holding hands.” 

“Oh, I believe it,” Sharpy replies. “you let us know when you’re done with the sixth grade and ready to join the adult world of dating.” 

Jonny looks over at Patrick and grins. Patrick has to drop his head down to look at his plate to hide his burning cheeks. Not twenty minutes ago, Patrick had gone to the bathroom to wash his hands. Jonny had followed a few moments later, walking a surprised Patrick back into the stall and tugging his pants down before Patrick could even ask what was up. He’d sucked him off right there, greedily slurping at his cock. He’d done it just like all of Patrick’s fantasies of punishing him with his dick, tears rolling out of his eyes, mouth stretched wide, letting Patrick fuck his face. Afterwards he’d rinsed his mouth out with sink water, gargling it a few times until his voice sounded almost normal, and then, meeting Patrick’s eyes in the mirror above the sink, told him to go back outside first. 

He’d returned to the table a few minutes after Patrick and very calmly started talking about the last good movie he saw in the theater. Nobody had noticed the slight rasp to his voice. 

“Oh, any day now, Sharpy,” Jonny tells him. “Any day now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Omg. If you enjoy overuse of commas and a lot of capslock, come find me on [tumblr.](http://the4freedoms.tumblr.com/)


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